


The One Where the Lingerie Is Out of the Bag

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [6]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Fear of Discovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 13:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: When I was writing the original 5+1 story that spurred this series, someone left me a prompt in the comments along the lines of:Ed finds out about Jim and Oswald, and tries to find evidence that Jim doesn't really care/love him, using the lingerie as proof that Jim is being unfaithful, only to be told by Oswald, "Yeah, those aren't for women, Ed."I read that prompt, and I thought, yes. Yes, I can do that. I hope, Sidney, that you enjoy the way I've worked your prompt into the series. <3





	The One Where the Lingerie Is Out of the Bag

**Author's Note:**

> I did the links a little differently this time around. Instead of putting them up here, I actually hotlinked them within the text. Please, please, please give me feedback about whether or not I should continue to do it this way or if you prefer the links in the notes. I'll take a poll and go with the majority. I think it's handier to reveal it in the story so you can picture it immediately as it's happening, but I would really like your guys' input on that because I've never done it before and I worry that the links will be jarring and may actually disrupt the story so if that's the case I want to know and revert. 
> 
> Anyway, there was actually about 3,000 words of porn that didn't make the final cut in this which tells the story of why the peach-colored number is Jim's favorite. It just didn't fit in with the rest of the story, imo. But I can include that as a bonus track if you guys reaaaalllly want it. 
> 
> I'm kidding, I already have plans to turn it into its own entry. tee hee hee

It’s an impulsive decision, which is rare enough for Jim, but he has five years’ worth of sick days accumulated and he figures, ‘What the hell?’

He and Oswald are snuggled up on the couch at his apartment, watching Guys and Dolls and Jim isn’t ready to leave their bubble yet. They’re at his place this weekend since they’re both supposed to have business in the city tomorrow, though Oswald’s isn’t until later in the day. The apartment isn’t as comfortable or well stocked as Oz’s ridiculous house, but it is sometimes more convenient.

 Convenience doesn’t make it easy to say goodbye to the weekends, however, and this past eleven months or so have seen some of Jim’s best weekends of all. As busy as they both tend to be during the week, neither of them are particularly fond of going out. Oswald is partial to sleeping in and Jim, who’s been dragged all over hell and creation by past lovers from the crack of dawn on Saturday until the dead of night on Sunday, prefers these lazy mornings, snuggled up with Oswald by far.

He enjoys laying around until noon, waiting to follow Oswald out of bed to go make breakfast together. Likes wrapping around Oz from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder while Oz makes bacon and feeds him samples with his fingers. Jim could wake up like that every day and never get bored of it, and it never fails to astound him when he thinks about it too hard.

Jim is a detective in a city with one of the nation’s highest crime rates where Oswald is a literal crime lord. Yet, they work. They work really, really well even when Jim is just minutes behind Oswald leaving a scene, little as he involves himself personally these days. Jim will get home and Oz will greet him as if Jim hadn’t almost been in time to arrest him.

Jim doesn’t ask what Oz does during the day, and Oz doesn’t request favors from the GCPD. They do their best to avoid interacting too much, neither of them giving any ground when confrontations are forced amidst their peers, but it’s all left at the door when they come home. It’s all so ridiculously domestic.

Oswald’s ‘business’ is stable, currently, and crime is actually on a down tick on Jim’s side of things, likely as a direct result. Maybe it doesn’t justify being selfish, but it does make it a little bit easier to phone his ‘unexpected illness’ into the station from the couch and beg off for the following day.

He’s assured that they’ll manage without him and wished a speedy recovery before Jim hangs up and settles back against the couch. Oswald’s expression, Jim sees as he returns his attention to the movie, is one of shocked disbelief.

“James Gordon,” he says, in a tone that reminds Jim of an affronted Victorian-era schoolteacher, scolding some wayward youth for trying to ruffle some petticoats. “Playing hooky? Someone alert the presses—Captain Gordon is being derelict in his duties as an officer of the law!”

Jim side-eyes him as he flips open his phone. “You’re right.” He sighs dramatically. “I should call them back and tell ‘em I’m feeling better—"

“No!” Oswald lunges across the couch and slaps Jim’s phone right out of his hands.

“Hey!” Jim tries to protest the abuse of his phone, but he’s too busy laughing as Oswald pins him to the couch and goes after his ribs. Oz stumbled across Jim’s ticklish sides during foreplay one evening and has since taken to exploiting the knowledge whenever possible.

His new favorite thing to do is creep up from behind while Jim’s making coffee and poke him in the side on his way to the cupboard. Jim’s gotten annoyed at past lovers for doing the same—there’s nothing more disconcerting than a full-body flinch when you’re handling scolding-hot coffee—but Oswald’s mischievous little smile as he giggles at Jim over the rim of his mug is too adorable for reproach.

God, he’s so whipped.

“Alright, alright,” Jim manages between wheezing fits of cackles, “I’m very sick! Deathly ill.”

“Well, let’s not get carried away,” Oswald reasons as he finally relinquishes his assault. “I think a nice bout of the flu is more than acceptable.”

He’s got Jim sprawled on his back over the seat of the couch, braced above him and looking far too pleased with himself. Vengeful, Jim yanks him down by his shirtfront and wraps him up in a very undignified hug, rubbing his chin over the top of his skull in a hands-free variation of a noogie.

Suddenly, there’s a hand lodged against his crotch.

“Don’t test me, James,” Oswald threatens, and Jim’s fairly certain he’s only half-joking.

Jim lets him go, holds up his hands. “You don’t fight fair, do you?”

Oswald props his chin up on Jim’s chest, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “It’s why I’m still alive.”

Jim leans forward to steal a quick kiss before pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and throwing it over both of them. Content to play with the collar of Oz’s rather [conservative silk pajamas](http://www.pajamasuper.com/Mens-Silk-Satin-Pajamas-Pyjamas-Pants-Lounge-Pants-Sleep-Bottoms), Jim closes his eyes for a moment, wondering what’s underneath while he listens to Oz sing along to Sinatra: "The guy's probably doing it for some doll..." 

***

Jim jolts awake the afternoon of his ‘sick day’ still blanketed by Oswald’s familiar weight. He tries to think of what could have stirred him, but opts to ignore it in favor of snuggling closer, burying his nose in Oswald’s hair before closing his eyes. It’d be easy to drift back to sleep, and that’s exactly what he does.

For a few, blissful seconds at least.

He snaps out of it when he hears the click of a pistol cocking, his instincts flying into overdrive as he wraps a protective arm around Oz’s head and snatches the gun from the holster he keeps mounted to the underside of the coffee table. He thumbs the safety off, almost fires without looking because friendlies don’t draw their guns on one another while one of them is half asleep, curled up with their boyfriend.

“Whoa! Easy, Jim!”

_Harvey._

Jim turns his head to find his partner standing in front of the TV, hands up—one holding a takeout bag, the other with his service pistol pointed toward the ceiling.

“The fuck are you thinking, Harvey?” Jim asks, heart-racing as fresh adrenaline surges forth. “I could’a shot you!”

He wouldn’t have missed either, Jim thinks, as he lowers his gun from where it’s pointed dead center at Harvey’s chest.

Harvey lowers his own hands and holsters his pistol, then fixes Jim with an accusatory stare.

“What am I thinking?” He points an incredulous finger at his own chest, then levels it at Oswald, “I’m thinking that’s _Penguin_ trying to suffocate you in your sleep!”

Oswald snorts, bringing both detectives’ attention to where he is obviously now awake, and very unhappy about it. “Suffocate him with what exactly, Detective Bullock? Bed head?”

Harvey pauses, takes in the full picture, then adds awkwardly, “I don’t know! It looked like…y’know…mutual strangulation or somethin’…from the door!”

Oz gives Jim a cheeky grin. “We could try it. Sounds fun, don’t you think, darling?”

Jim groans, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he sighs with the full force of his exasperation. This is the kind of instant karma he gets for trying to play hooky.

Harvey plops himself down on the coffee table. “I brought you soup, asshole. Now, I kinda just wanna punch you in the face.”

 “How sweet,” Oz answers for him, while Jim quietly panics. How the hell is he going to explain this? “Why don’t I take it to the kitchen while you boys reaffirm your friendship.”

Jim fixes him with a blank stare as Oswald grins cheekily, making a show of climbing off Jim and straightening his pajamas. He gracefully limps away as Jim and Harvey watch his retreat before turning back to one another.

“Really?” Harvey deadpans. “That guy?”

Jim huffs a laugh, then groans. “He’s not like you think.”

“Oh, no?” Harvey laughs sardonically. “Just how long has this been going on?”

Jim grimaces, eyes squinting, as he reveals, “Last spring.”

Harvey props an elbow on his knee, so he can rub his forehead. He then leans forward and whispers, incensed, “You’re telling me you’ve been banging Penguin for almost a goddamned year?”

Jim sits up nice and slow, trying to get his bearings so he can feel like he’s on more equal footing for this conversation. When he’s eye level with Harvey, he finally nods. “There about.”

Harvey takes a deep breath, and Jim can see the man trying to assimilate to this new reality. Eventually, he asks, “So…you two just get together when you want to blow off steam? Then, what? Back to business?”

“We keep business out of it,” Jim replies. Taking his time to formulate how to respond to the implication that perhaps he and Oswald’s arrangement isn’t so different from the one Harvey used to share with Fish. Flowery explanations aren’t his forte, however, so Jim just says what he thinks sums it up. “We exchanged keys, actually.”

Harvey’s mouth opens, but no words come out as he points a skeptical finger toward the kitchen and mouths the word, ‘You…’

Jim purses his lips, exhales. “We’re together…” Jim’s hands gesture awkwardly as he tries to explain, “We’re a couple.”

Harvey eyes Jim likes he’s been replaced with an alien before scrubbing both hands over his face. He reaches into his trench coat and extracts his flask, taking an exceedingly long pull.  He then glances over his shoulder into the kitchen where Oswald is divvying up the soup and bread bowls Harvey must have got from Panera and shakes his head.

“Guess there’s no accountin’ for taste.”

***

The world continues to turn, and Harvey sometimes takes the piss out of Oswald and Jim in private (Things like, “Hot date later, Penguin?” and, “Don’t worry, Jim, I’m sure your boyfriend’ll kiss it better”) but he doesn’t report the relationship and only mildly threatens Oswald once.

It could be a lot worse, Jim tells himself. He knows Harvey is worried for him, but he’s a loyal friend and he trusts Jim to do his job.  

It doesn’t matter, though, the damage is done—their relationship is no longer completely their own—and so now, Jim worries. He knows it’s a conflict of interest, has from the very start. He’s the leader of a policing body who goes home to a crime lord damn near every night, calls in to play hooky with him, and while Jim knows he hasn’t manipulated evidence, he still _feels_ guilty.

Everything he’s been pushing down is slowly working its way up into his gut to form a permanent knot of anxiety in his stomach. Keeping his work life separate from his…well, his _home_ life, is getting steadily more difficult as Jim finds it damn near impossible to drop his worries at the door when they’re together. He’s just waiting for the other shoe to fall and, until it does, Jim is steadily winding himself up. He knows Oz is unsettled by it, how Jim is more and more distracted when they’re together even though all of Jim’s hours at work are spent worrying over him.

Every day he goes into the station and he wonders if today is going to be the day. Will he see Oswald walk through those doors in cuffs? Or, in his darker hours of melancholy—a body bag? Jim looses minutes, staring at his office door, waiting for the commissioner to storm through it and demand his badge and gun.

He is plagued by doubts, and the ever-running question— _is it worth it_?

On most days, Jim can easily say that it is, but there is that little part of him that still clings to a moral high ground he knows doesn’t exist, beckoning to him. It tells him that loving Oswald is wrong, and that he had to wake up to reality sometime. Those days, when that little voice rails a little too loudly, Jim’s heart aches, and his stomach churns. He’s perfectly healthy, but he feels like he’s dying inside.

He’ll try to picture himself telling Oswald they need to break it off. Try to picture himself being happy with his life as it was before it all began.

He can’t.

Thing is…Jim’s never been this happy. There is no ‘before’ to return to; just an empty apartment and a lonely bed.

He feels guilty for lying. But he can’t feel guilty for loving Oswald. Oz has absolutely done, and continues to do, terrible things. There’s a side to him that is steeped in darkness and ruthless amorality. He is the definition of the phrase, ‘by any means necessary.’

Unapologetically.

Oswald has a monster inside him, just like Jim, but the error is thinking that either of them actually is one.

Most of the time, Oz is just a guy that likes shitty crime novels and pistachio ice cream, likes to shove his cold toes under Jim’s thighs when they watch the news together. He’s polished, and cold on the outside, but Jim gets to see what others don’t.

Like the way Oz refuses to watch the first seven minutes of Bambi. He sings old show-tunes while he washes the dishes and he knows how to cook better than most five-star chefs. He’ll bitch at Jim when he leaves the seat up, but when it comes to cold-case files on the coffee table, he doesn’t tell Jim to put it away and save it for the office. He sits down and helps him see it from a different angle.

Jim does his best to give back, and maybe he falls short sometimes, but he is not going to repay Oswald’s own steadfast devotion by being a cold-hearted bastard that insists there’s only one side to that coin.

Yes, it’s selfish.

Yes, it’s a conflict of interest.

But Jim can’t change the things that are problematic about their relationship without fundamentally changing himself or Oswald. They can grow together, they can bend together, but the foundation of who they are will always be the same. So far, that foundation has been pretty solid, and Jim has no reason to doubt that it will hold up.

He and Harvey argue about it sometimes, but the man keeps their secret and Jim works double-time to ensure he’s worthy of that kind of faith.

***

It does come to a head, eventually. Though, not in any of the ways that give Jim nightmares.

He’s walking to his car after another long day spent chasing down leads associated with a string of jewelry store robberies. Jim suspects it’s an off-shoot gang from Nygma’s band of thieves as they have a familiar flair for the dramatic, but he and Harvey are having a hard time making any solid connections.

Jim’s already combed over what little evidence they do have, and there’s nothing more forthcoming until they get another hit. He shakes his head; it’s nothing that can’t wait another day. He just has to sit back and wait for them to make a mistake—and they will, because they always do—and be grateful that the incidents haven’t led to any deaths or injuries.

He considers that fact a small mercy as he pulls out his key ring and unlocks his driver-side door. He blames his preoccupation with the case for how easily they manage to get the drop on him. One minute he’s whirling around to throw a punch and the next, everything goes dark.

***

“Wakey, wakey!”

Jim comes to with a groggy, muffled groan. His mouth is dry, and there’s a musty scent clogging his nose. He tries to raise his arms to dislodge whatever’s pressed against his face, but his wrists meet with restraint, sending a shock of pain through his shoulders and the memory of the attack comes flooding back. His entire body jolts as he tries to shout through his gag and wrench against his binds.

“Now, now, there’s no point in struggling, Jim. Those bonds are quite tight.” Ed’s voice is the last thing Jim wants to hear right now, and he’s grateful for the bag over his head, so no one can see him roll his eyes.

He threatens immediate arrest if Ed doesn’t let him go, futile as it may be, but all that comes out is, “Mpph ffrrmmm oooo, eeennn.”

“I know, I know.” Ed pretends to make sense of Jim’s garbled order. “But our guest of honor has yet to arrive, and I do so love a dramatic reveal. So, you’ll just have to sit tight under that disgusting old bag for just a little longer.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he adds, “Of course, you’ll probably want to crawl right back into the bag once I enlighten him about your massive betrayal.”

Jim’s brow furrows, stilling for a moment as he tries to think of anyone he’s ‘betrayed’ lately. He can’t recall stepping into any fresh shit recently, so he goes back further, and is forced to concede that just about every member of Gotham’s criminal underworld probably has some reason or another for wanting him dead.

Ed misreads his sudden stillness as confirmation, however, and Jim finds his shoulders grasped painfully as Ed whispers menacingly into his ear. “That’s right, Jim. I’m going to tell him _everything_. And then I’m going to help him kill you after _you_ confess!”

Jim would ask him just what the hell he thinks he’s talking about, except he’s gagged and at that moment the doors to wherever this is are thrown open with a clatter.

Jim slumps in relief when he hears a familiar voice.

“This had better be important, Ed,” Oswald says. “This is an _actual_ business, and it doesn’t run its—”

Oswald comes up short, and Jim knows he’s just caught sight of the bound and hooded man—Jim is never going to hear the end of this when Harvey finds out— sitting in the middle of what Jim is certain must be the Iceberg Lounge.

Oswald’s voice is outraged when he asks, “What the hell is the meaning of this, and why have you dragged it into my bar?”

Ed clucks his tongue. “Not _it,_ Oswald.” The bag is wrenched from Jim’s head, then. “ _Who_.”

Everything is too bright as the earlier blow to the head throbs in agony with the strain of focusing his vision. When he does, Oswald’s shock is palatable, but he covers it with a veneer of irritation as he calls over his shoulder to Butch, who Jim notices is looking much more like his old self nowadays.

“Leave us, Butch, but don’t go far,” Oswald orders. “I’ll call for you if I need your assistance.”

Butch gives a little two-finger salute before turning and slipping out the emergency exit. Oswald returns his attention to the Riddler with an air of haughty impatience. “And what, pray tell, am I supposed to do with the Captain of the GCPD, hmm?”

Ed sighs, affecting a pitying expression as he approaches Oz with his hands up. “Oswald, I know we have had our ups and downs, but I’d like to think the past is behind us. What I want, is to make a clean start, and to do that…” He explains as he shoots an accusatory glare at Jim, “I’m going to expose Jim Gordon for the no good, dirty cheat that he is.”

Jim frowns, because, _what?_

“Wrrhhh’a ucccff?”

Oswald blinks rapidly, as he shakes his head minutely. “Speak plainly, Ed,” Oswald curtly demands, hastily assessing Jim’s condition while Ed is turned away, rummaging through a small purple suitcase.

“We—Lee and I—received your package.”

Jim eyes Oswald questioningly, to which Oz studiously avoids his gaze.

_Christ._

“I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oswald denies icily.

“You didn’t leave a card, it’s true,” Ed replies, as he spins around and holds up two paper gift bags, each of them deep purple with his customary green question marks brushed over their front. They’re labeled: Thing 1, and Thing 2. “But I’ve done some leg work—well, I hired some leg work—my eyes all over the city, and the only lead I could find led me, well, here. To you.

“See, no one seemed to care all that much about the good Captain’s poisoning, not even you except for blackmail purposes.” Ed shrugs, then squints. “Not at first glance, anyway.”

“So, in order to find out who _did_ ,” Ed continues, as he circles the room, “I had the detective followed, as well as possible.” He turns to Jim, “Very clever use of taxis, I must confess. My informants aren’t exactly employable, so your comings and goings were exceedingly hard to track but not impossible.

“Somehow, I doubt regular sleep overs with the former mayor of Gotham are strictly matters of police business. However, they might be cause enough for you, Oswald, to take offense at his untimely attempted murder.”

Jim closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. _Goddamnit_. 

Oswald, however, simply rolls his eyes. “That’s all you’ve got? The questionable word of Gotham’s repugnant street filth? _Please._ No one in their right mind would believe you.”

Ed huffs. “I don’t need anyone else to believe me, Oswald. This isn’t about blackmail. I’m just trying to tell you that I _know,”_ he gestures between Oz and Jim, “about this affair of yours, in order to provide _context_ for my next matter of business.”

“You have nothing,” Oswald asserts with a huff. “But please, by all means, get on with it,” he adds with growing impatience.

Ed smiles broadly, then gestures at Oswald thoughtfully. “Did you know there’s a certain species of penguin which are entirely monogamous? Some people even say they have soulmates.”

Jim groans behind his gag, and Oswald mirrors his sentiment with a roll of his eyes. “Your point, please? I’m tiring of your _uniquely_ _special_ delivery.”

Ed narrows his eyes at the barb but straightens his shoulders. “My point is this: I’m willing to provide you with irrefutable proof that Jim has been unfaithful to you in exchange for your promise not to make good on your threat to Lee.”

Oswald’s brow furrows, and Jim can tell that he is trying to recall any behavior of Jim’s that might somehow reinforce Ed’s claims. While Oswald is thinking it over, Ed upturns Thing 1 onto the bar.

Jim’s eyes widen, and Oswald goes completely still, his face pale and drawn. There, splayed over the granite countertop is Oswald’s long, red night gown. The one Jim had purchased for him at the very start. And that’s not all. Ed shakes the bag, and more from Oswald’s private collection tumbles out—satin panties, nylons, and a [peach-colored lacy leotard](https://xdress.com/collections/mens-lingerie/products/mens-see-thru-lace-bodysuit?variant=43999327107) Jim recognizes as one of his own personal favorites.

Jim is immediately livid, as he shouts all manner of obscenities in Ed’s direction. He has no right to touch Oswald’s things, goddamnit, not to mention display them like they’re some kind of bawdy garbage. None of his words are discernible but the intent behind them is clear enough.

Ed, of course, takes it as supporting evidence to his claims, thinking Jim is simply irate at having been exposed. “These were found, _hidden_ , all over Jim’s apartment. My hired hands swept the detective’s home on three separate occasions and each visit revealed something new in previously discovered hiding places.”

He then turns to Jim. “Which means, your boyfriend here has been stepping out with some as yet unidentified harlot for the past four months, at least.”

Ed then upturns Thing 2, and Jim feels his heart drop into his stomach.

_Oh, no._

“Apparently, whoever she is—it’s pretty serious.” He plucks up the tiny, velvet box and places it gently into Oswald’s trembling hands. “I presented it to Barb—no explanation, of course—and she clearly didn’t recognize it so it’s definitely not something he ever gave to her.” Ed finishes his presentation with an accusatory finger pointed at Jim, “He’s _using you_ , Oswald. Taking advantage of your feelings to manipulate you.”

Oswald’s eyes, when he turns them onto Jim, are wide and shocked. Jim growls in frustration, struggling against his binds again. This is _not_ how he planned this moment. Hell, he hasn’t actually planned this moment at all. It was…

_Fuck._

He and Harvey have been in and out of jewelry stores for three weeks now and, even feeling guilty as hell, Jim couldn’t help it. As doomed as he sometimes feels about the future of their relationship, Jim spends a godawful amount of time picturing it in his head.

He doesn’t even know if Oswald likes sapphires, but the color and the style of the piece itself—timeless and beautiful—had reminded Jim of Oz strongly enough that once the he’d flirted with the idea, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He’d gone back to the jeweler, to the owner of the second store to be hit under the guise of collecting more statements, three times before he’d finally given in and bought the thing. It had cost him a pretty penny, and while Jim didn’t have any concrete plans about how or when to give it to Oswald, the intent is definitely there.  

Because conflict of interest or not, Jim isn’t giving up on them. The incongruity of what they are, respectively, versus what they are to each other, worries the hell out of him, but damn it all, Jim will take that conflict if Oz is what comes attached. He doesn’t need a white picket fence, can’t conceive of just what ‘normal’ is, but he does know what he _wants_.

Jim wants those lazy mornings, those salty kisses and all the complicated, frilly shit Ed just dumped all over the bar. He wants to be the only one that gets to see what softness lies beneath all those finely sharpened edges. Jim wants Oswald Cobblepot, and all the so-called crazy that comes with him. That thing in the box—it’s a pledge; that Jim will choose Oswald, even if it costs him his badge and reputation.

Jim lets his eyes wander over their surroundings for a moment, taking in their current situation with a rueful sort of acceptance. Harvey’s probably right, and Jim is out of his mind but, hell, it’s almost kind of fitting.

Oswald jolts out of his momentary stupor, gaining Jim’s attention as he crosses the distance between them to comb his fingers through Jim’s hair. Ed looks on, entirely too self-satisfied, as Oz’s fingers slide down the side of Jim’s face to work the gag from his mouth. He knows it must take every ounce of will Oswald possesses not to flip that little box open outright.

Instead, he holds it in the space between them, his voice small and shaken as he asks, “Jim, what is this?”

Jim wants to reach out to him, because Oz looks so lost and overwhelmed at the very idea. He can’t though and, worse, he can’t figure out how to explain what had possessed him. How do you tell someone you bought them an engagement ring, that you love them so much it hurts, but that you weren’t planning on giving it to them yet? Isn’t that the definition of cruelty?

Jim’s teeth clench, and he can feel his eyes welling up under the pressure of needing to get this right. “It’s…I just…”

Ed shuffles forward a little, and its clear he wants to see how Oswald will react to what he thinks Jim purchased for some mystery woman that doesn’t even exist. Doubtlessly, he believes Jim is about to have his balls sawn off.

He may be right, because Jim is fucking this up royally. He isn’t prepared. They aren’t alone, and the words won’t come. He’s definitely guilty, just not of the things Ed is accusing him.

God, but Jim really wants to punch him in the face again.

He can see the moment when Oswald gives in to curiosity, just before he carefully opens the box. His sharp, breathless gasp is jarring against the tense quiet that permeates the air of the empty bar. Oz presses a fist against his pursed lips, and Jim can see his eyes glistening in the low glow of the ambient overhead lighting.

Ed steps forward then, patting Oswald’s shoulder. “There, there,” he tries to console, and Jim is actually a little struck by how genuine Ed’s sympathy appears to be. “I was going to say, about the penguins, that…well, your soulmate is out there still, Oswald, even if it isn’t Jim Gordon.”

Oswald makes a noise at that, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, as he gingerly closes the box. Jim watches him examine it, turning it over and over, as if trying to discern its meaning.

Finally, no longer caring that they aren’t alone or that he can’t muster any eloquence, Jim blurts, voice rough, “It reminded me of your eyes.”

Oswald’s head snaps back to Jim, those very same eyes locked on his own as Jim swallows around the lump in his throat and tries to explain. “And I thought maybe someday…if we talked about it and you seemed like you wanted…maybe. I just. I thought I should get it.”

Whatever emotion is written on his face, Oswald responds to it with a look so achingly tender, it makes Jim’s chest ache. Oz bends down and kisses Jim’s forehead solemnly, as if he knows all about Jim’s unspoken doubts and is mercifully absolving him of them. He then reaches into Jim’s suit jacket and tucks the little box into its interior pocket.

Oz leans away suddenly to wipe his face, sniffs, then turns to confront Ed’s now very befuddled expression.

“Oh, Ed,” Oswald starts, sighing as he makes his way back over to the bar, disregarding the way Ed bewilderedly follows at the last second. “I’m impressed, as usual, by your ability to see what others do not. And yet,” Oswald says, picking up his lingerie and panties from the counter, placing them back into the bag labeled Thing 1, “here you are again, with a pile of evidence right in front of your face, failing to arrive at the most obvious conclusion.

“The devil truly is in the details, as they say, and it’s the smallest of those which you always overlook.” Oswald loops his wrist through the bag, leaning against the bar.

“What are you talking about?” Ed finally interjects. “Why aren’t you killing him?”

“Because, Ed,” Oswald replies matter-of-factory, “I’m in love with him.”

“Wha—”

“Riddle me this,” he continues, cutting the other man off as Jim watches proudly, because he knows how much this is costing Oswald. “Supposing these,” he shakes the bag containing his things, “aren’t made for women, then who else must wear them?” Oswald breathes a chuckle through his nose, “Try not to take six hours to figure it out.”

Ed’s brow furrows. “What are you—? Those _are_ women’s panties, Oswald, I know what women’s panties look…” He cuts himself off as Oswald shakes his head slowly, expression pitiable. “…like.”

He turns a pleading look toward Jim, as if begging him to make sense of it all. Unfortunately for Ed, Jim isn’t feeling particularly sympathetic; he dug his own grave here, after all.

 So, Jim says nothing as he, too, blandly shakes his head.

Ed’s eyes widen comically, mouth opening and closing, before turning back to Oswald. He leans in, hesitantly, voice quietly skeptical. “Really?”

Oswald answers him by smiling brightly. “I appreciate the gesture, Ed, I really do, but you needn’t have bothered.” He straightens his suit and puffs out his chest, as he continues, “The package I sent was but a friendly warning. She’ll find some other way to break ties with her past, since her past,” he gestures to Jim, “has already broken ties with her. At any rate, she’s been useful in times of need. I see no reason to waste her talents so long as she can meet those terms.”

Ed frowns. “Oh.”

“Indeed.” Oswald glances at Jim before retrieving his phone from his suit pocket, adding, “You know, if you were looking for an excuse to rekindle our friendship, you really only had to call. There’s no need for such theatrics.”

Butch reenters the barroom then, striding over to Jim to cut through his binds and help him to his feet. Jim groans as he stretches and cracks his joints while Gilzean then makes his way to tower over Ed.

“Allow me to show you the door, Riddler.”

Ed quirks an eyebrow, then fixes Oswald with a blank stare. “Is that really necessary? We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

“Until next time.” Oswald gives a half nod. “Friend.”

Ed actually huffs at that, a smaller, more genuine smile gracing his mouth.

“Oh, and Ed?” Oswald goes from lukewarm to ice-cold in an instant, his eyes like daggers as he says, “Perhaps I’m not as poetic as you, but let me say this only once: Touch my things again, and I’ll feed your fingers to a wood chipper.”

 “I’d expect nothing less,” Ed concedes. He tips his hat at Jim on his way out. “No hard feelings, right, detective?”

Jim quirks an unimpressed brow before Butch gives Ed a shove between the shoulder blades. He’ll catch Ed soon enough.  

It’s just him and Oswald, then, alone in the bar and so Jim closes the distance between them. Oz melts into his embrace, arms winding around his waist in welcome.

When they finally let go, Jim gestures at the bag on Oz’s wrist. “You sure it was wise to play your hand like that?”

Oswald shrugs. “I’ll deal with him if I have to.” His eyes drop to their feet as he asks, “Why did you buy it, Jim?”

“I…” Jim sighs, pulling the box from his jacket. “I’ve been panicking ever since Harvey found out. I wasn’t ready for this to not be just ours anymore. I was scared, and I kept thinking, there’s no way this can work in the long run…”

Oswald looks eerily resigned as he says, “I know it isn’t idea—”

“No,” Jim interjects, before Oswald can finish that particular train of thought. “That’s the thing, Oz. It is ideal.” Jim laughs, somewhat manic as he clarifies, “We have an ideal relationship.

“I mean, neither of us are ideal people, and I know our lives are crazy and it was impulsive to buy it, but I can’t picture going back to my old life and being even a tenth as happy as I am with you, right now. And when I picture where I want to be in ten years, Oz, it’s not a place. Or a job. It’s just you.

“Just me and you.”

Oz curls a hand under the one Jim has wrapped around the box. He finally lifts his head to meet Jim’s gaze with a smile that doesn’t ring quite true as he asks, “You really think my eyes look like sapphires?”

Jim can tell it’s an out, and it would probably be the wise, sensible thing to do if he took it. He opens the box instead, “Oz, do you…want to think about someday, with me?”

Oz doesn’t wipe the tears away this time, lets them fall silently where they may. He takes [the ring](http://romanovrussia.com/antique/antique-three-stone-sapphire-diamond-gold-unisex-ring/) from the box, instead, and slips it onto his right ring finger. It isn’t a formal engagement, but it is a promise. Oz lays his head against Jim’s shoulder, let’s Jim press a kiss to his ringed finger as they hold on to one another in the epicenter of Gotham’s criminal underworld.

It doesn’t feel wrong, and Jim can’t summon any guilt as he imagines moving that ring onto the appropriate finger someday.

“I’m always thinking about you, James Gordon,” Oswald finally answers, a quiet, fond confession, “and I’m always with you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! Again, please let me know if you liked how the links were set into the story this time around, or if you found it distracting. 
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed the story, I'd love to hear about it one way or another with a kudo or a comment. <3


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